


time we lost is resting on the stairs (and so we go)

by control



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And Also Gardening, Bonding over food, Domestic, Fluff, Listen... Bucky is Trying, M/M, Making Friends is Hard but Worth It, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson Birthday Bang, Samtember
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-30 15:51:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12112080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/control/pseuds/control
Summary: Bucky’s mouth quirks a little, a tiny smile hovering at the corner of his lips. Sam is, surprisingly, enjoying this vibe - this catching-up-with-an-old-buddy vibe he’s getting here, sitting in a Starbucks with Bucky Barnes - but now that the prospect of answers is lurking just under his nose he can’t wait any longer.“So why have you been following me around town?” he asks, casual-like, in the same voice he would use on a first date:so what do you like to do?





	time we lost is resting on the stairs (and so we go)

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang, which was a blast! go check out all of the amazing fics written this Samtember over at the [Sam Wilson Birthday Bang Collection](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sam_Wilson_BB/), or on their [tumblr](http://www.samwilsonbirthdaybang.tumblr.com).
> 
> a huge thank you to my wonderful artist, [ensign-cannonfodder](https://ensign-c.livejournal.com), who made the absolutely stunning art for this fic! the art is embedded within the fic, but you can also check it out [here](https://ensign-c.livejournal.com/2719.html)
> 
> title from ["Hear the Noise That Moves So Soft and Low"](https://youtu.be/TlOz7ovta9I) by James Vincent McMorrow.

Sam always does the grocery shop on Wednesday mornings, when the only people in the stores are elderly folk and stay-at-home moms and the local store runs its double-ad sale. It’s nice: quiet and peaceful, and sometimes he gets recipes from the other shoppers, or gets to make faces at babies over their mom’s shoulders. He gets his pick of fresh fruits and vegetables, he never has to worry about the store being out of stock, and it gives him a reason to leave his house on his day off; all in all, it’s a great deal.

He’s testing the ripeness of roma tomatoes for pasta sauce when someone comes over and starts picking through the peppers to Sam’s right. Now, this shouldn’t be cause for alarm, Sam knows it shouldn’t and it probably isn’t, but when he’s in the store at 10:30 in the morning he’s usually got free reign of the produce section, because the little old ladies tend to take their sweet time getting around and Sam always hits the veggies first so he can load up his cart with healthy stuff before he’s enticed by junk food on his way to the milk.

Regularly interacting with actual, honest-to-god _superheroes_ means Sam is a hell of a lot more self-conscious about his eating habits (which is completely illogical, because Sam has personally seen Captain America plow his way through greasy fast food and pop tarts and all the other junk Sam’s mama told him would rot his insides, but no one ever said vanity was logical).

He’s going through his very important ritual of picking up a tomato, squeezing it a little to test its give, turning it around to admire its color, and then shaking his head and setting it down because it’s not perfect (Sam has never found the perfect vegetable, ever; he always complains about the subpar stock at the store and Natasha always tells him to get his ass over to a farmer’s market, Wilson, and he would except he _likes_ this little store) when the guy comes right up next to him, which, okay, a little weird; literally the rest of the produce section is empty but, hey, maybe the guy just really needs tomatoes. Whatever. Sam’s not completely paranoid; he can share space with another guy in front of the vegetables, another guy who is reaching up to the top of the stand where Sam never dares to so much as look in case he’s tempted.

(He’ll never forget the time he was shopping with his mama, tiny and adorable and probably making bird noises, watching in horror as someone accidentally picked the wrong fruit and sent an entire display of apples tumbling. Sam’s seen some fucked up, dumbass shit but he’s pretty sure he would spontaneously die if he ended up being the cause of something like that.)

He’s about to move onto some cucumbers, having picked out a few decent tomatoes, but when he turns around the guy next to him sticks his hand out, right into Sam’s space. Sam’s not paranoid, sure, but he still gets defensive when people around him are suddenly all up in his space. He’s so busy congratulating himself on not trying to fight this guy (who looks built, even in his hoodie and loose jeans) that he barely notices the tomatoes the guy is placing in Sam’s cart. By the time he realizes, the guy is turning around to leave, his left hand glinting in the harsh grocery store lights before he tucks it back into his pocket. Sam blinks, shakes his head in disbelief, and inspects the tomatoes.

They’re goddamn perfect.

 

Sam debates whether or not to tell Steve about his encounter, but he decides to leave it. After all, he barely caught a glimpse of the Winter Soldier, and nothing happened, really, other than the fact that Sam now spends twice as long getting groceries because he can’t believe that a guy who grew up during the Great Depression is capable of picking out better produce than him. He has a _metal hand_ , for God’s sake.

Sam grew up on his mama’s cooking, was always the one who got dragged along to the store with her and helped her in the kitchen because his sisters were too busy with schoolwork; no way is he letting Bucky fucking Barnes get away with this, at least not until he teaches Sam his ways. Maybe HYDRA taught him, Sam thinks, and then forces himself to go do actual work because, really? Whatever the Winter Soldier’s missions were, infiltrating MasterChef was definitely not HYDRA’s MO.

He does make sure to stay a little more alert during his shopping trips. Not that it matters, of course, because he doesn’t see Bucky there again.

 

There’s a nice little gym a fifteen minute drive from Sam’s place, in the same plaza as the grocery store. Sam usually goes on Saturday mornings, when it’s nearly empty and he can use the machines as he pleases, lift weights without worrying about sounding too out of breath or having to put up with Captain Asshole shit-talking him through his workout (Sam knows he’s in better shape than most civilians, but, _damn_ , regularly working with superheroes means that he’s more conscious than ever of the limitations of his normal, human body. Not that he wants to be a supersoldier - nuh-uh, the life that Steve leads is more than enough of a warning).

It’s been raining for the past week, so instead of running outside in the fresh air Sam’s stuck inside on a Wednesday with the gym’s treadmills to get his early morning exercise in. He plugs his headphones into his phone and queues up the playlist his niece made him for this very purpose (she has surprisingly good taste, for a twelve-year-old) and then dials up the speed on his machine and starts running. He gets so into his run, and the music, that when someone starts up on the machine next to him he doesn’t give it a second thought, although the gym is no more crowded than usual and usually Sam is the only idiot running in here at five in the morning.

He cycles the machine through its settings, working up a good sweat before slowing down to a brisk walk and then stopping altogether, and through his heavy breathing Sam takes a minute to look at the other runner. The guy looks _good_ , his long-sleeved shirt soaked with sweat along his shoulders and back, shorts clinging to his thick thighs, dark hair tied up and, oh, shit, Sam sees a flash of silver from the guy’s left hand and yep, that’s the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes himself running next to him in his gym, so hard that Sam’s half afraid the guy’ll break the goddamn treadmill. Bucky must sense Sam’s stare (people walking down the street could probably sense Sam’s stare, he’s not exactly being subtle) because he pulls the emergency stop and hops off the machine; the bastard isn’t even out of breath. Sam is getting real tired of being surrounded by superhumans every single day of his life.

“Hey,” Bucky says, nodding at Sam. Sam nods back, tries to reply, but his voice gets stuck in his throat somewhere and so instead of answering like a normal goddamn person he ends up making a nasty croaking sound. By the time he’s cleared his throat and is ready to talk, Bucky’s already on the other side of the gym, by the heavy bags, wrapping his hands.

 

Slowly but surely, spring finally comes back around, and with it comes the one-year anniversary of the fall of SHIELD. Sam celebrates by getting out his gardening tools and heading to the nursery to scope out the spring stock and resolutely not thinking about what he was doing this time last year. He’d invited Steve and Natasha to help him, but they’re both caught up in the sort of diplomacy that comes with being real, official, on-the-books superheroes, so he’s all alone picking out plants and bird feeders, fertilizer and tools. He needs succulents to keep him company around the house, and he’s thinking about putting in some window boxes so he can have fresh herbs to use in his increasingly homecooked meals. Also, flowers. Flowers are real nice.

He’s trying to decide between buying a pre-made pot of tiny little houseplants or grabbing a pot and some soil and DIY-ing the whole thing (all the pre-made ones have at least one plant that’s not sitting right with him, or else the pot is just really fucking ugly) when he becomes aware of an increasingly familiar presence coming up to him. Sam steels himself for… well. He’s not entirely sure what to expect. He and Bucky have never interacted; Bucky’s just been stalking him, basically, and Sam never put a fucking stop to it, so if he dies right here in this Lowe’s garden center it’s probably entirely his fault.

Bucky comes up next to him, and even though he knew it was about to happen, Sam can’t help but tense up. They stand in silence there, together, for a beat, and then Bucky clears his throat.

“I like the yellow one,” he says.

“Man, fuck off,” Sam replies. He deflates a little, turns his head just enough to maybe catch a glimpse of Bucky’s face, but Bucky’s tucked his chin and nose into the collar of his hoodie and isn’t looking at Sam at all. Sam turns fully towards him; Bucky inhales sharply. His eyes are wide and clear, dark like the ocean. He looks- uncomfortable. Trapped, maybe. Unsure. _Well, good_ , Sam thinks. _That makes fucking two of us._ And it sure as hell ain’t his fault.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he asks, and if it comes out short and angry, well, he is. He’s both. Now that Bucky is here, physically in front of him and not fleeting, not about to run away, everything he’s been stressing about since that first time in the supermarket is coming out all at once. “Stalking me? Just wandering around in my life, showing up everywhere after you tried to kill me? To kill Steve? Natasha? You really think that’s okay?” and God, he so was not planning on making a scene in front of the potted plants but _he can’t help it_.

“No!” Bucky’s eyes are, impossibly, even wider now. He looks wild; anxious - _trapped_ , Sam thinks again. Scared. Sweat prickles down the back of Sam’s neck. “I- no!”

“You better have an excellent explanation for this, then,” Sam whisper-shouts. There: not a scene. He’s just _whispering_. Angrily.

Bucky’s face is shining with sweat. His eyes are darting around, looking anywhere but at Sam. He’s a long way from the machine of a man Sam fought on the causeway; a long way away from the guy in the history books. He swallows loud enough that Sam can hear. Clears his throat. “Can we- uh. Can we -” Bucky shakes his head a little. “- do this somewhere else?”

His voice is hoarse. It barely comes out at all, like he has to force himself to speak out loud.

“Where,” Sam says.

Bucky turns his head a little, tilts it to the side like he’s thinking. “Not here,” he says.

Sam exhales through his nose in frustration. “Fine,” he says. “Lead the way.” Bucky stares at him. “ _Now_ , please,” he says, and then he’s leaving his cart, following Bucky Barnes outside and down the street.

 

Bucky leads him into the Starbucks across the parking lot. It’s a smart choice. Caffeine and sweets are a great way to improve Sam’s mood - definitely better than the juice bar across the street.

The place isn’t crowded, but there are enough customers hanging around to mask any awkward conversation they’re about to have. Sam gets in line to order, Bucky makes a beeline towards the back of the store, and Sam refuses to watch him so he turns his gaze to the menu instead. An iced caramel macchiato, or a salted caramel mocha frap? These are the real questions. Sam compromises by getting a grande macchiato and an old fashioned donut.

Bucky’s grabbed them a table at the back of the store and arranged it to his liking by the time Sam gets back to him: he’s moved two chairs to the same side of the table, backs to the wall and a healthy amount of space between them, and either this store is really dedicated to privacy or he’s moved the surrounding tables and chairs and goddamn _potted plants_ around enough to obscure the entire corner. Sam slides into the corner seat, sets his drink and his donut down. Bucky heads to the front of the store to order, and Sam finally relaxes a little. Just enough to wonder what the fuck is going on, exactly, before Bucky comes back with a venti something-or-other frappuccino, topped off with whipped cream.

“How did you get that so fast?” Sam asks; he can’t see the line from here but it was pretty long when he left it, and no one makes a blended drink that quickly.

Bucky ducks his head. “There’s a girl,” he says, “here. She knows me.”

“Uh-huh..,” Sam says.

“Well,” Bucky concedes, “she knows my coffee order, at least.”

“Man, that is not coffee,” Sam says, gesturing to Bucky’s drink like he isn’t drinking something equally as sweet and milky and not-coffee.

Bucky’s mouth quirks a little, a tiny smile hovering at the corner of his lips, completely at odds with the rest of his body language. Sam is, surprisingly, enjoying this vibe - this catching-up-with-an-old-buddy vibe he’s getting here, sitting in a Starbucks with Bucky Barnes - but they came here for a reason and now that the prospect of answers is lurking just under his nose he can’t wait any longer.

“So why have you been following me around town?” he asks, casual as can be, in the same voice he would use on a first date: _so what do you like to do?_

 

 

  


_Art by[ensign-cannonfodder](https://ensign-c.livejournal.com/)_

Bucky freezes. The little not-smile vanishes, his eyes narrow and he’s facing forward with his whole body, same as before but _more_ , somehow; rigid and tense like he’s anticipating an attack. Not that he was anywhere approaching comfortable before, but this? This is a soldier who’s just been assigned guard duty in enemy territory. Sam’s nerves are on edge just looking at him.

He gives in to his instincts and scans the entire shop, clocks the group of kids sitting near the front window, the holier-than-thou hipster author types hogging the outlets at the counter, the moms-with-strollers causing a traffic jam in the door trying to get outside: situation normal, as far as he can tell. No HYDRA, no world-destroying terrorists, no average run-of-the-mill bad guys.

God, he hates this life sometimes.

Bucky’s still sitting at uneasy attention, and Sam takes a moment to wonder whether he’s checked out completely before deciding _fuck it_. He needs answers. He might have signed up for this life of plausibly deniable superheroing, but he definitely didn’t sign up to have a metal-armed stalker follow him around in his day-to-day.

“You gonna answer me or what?” he says, letting his annoyance come through.

“HYDRA’s following you,” Bucky says, all at once in a rush of breath.

Sam puts his drink down. “What.”

“They’re following you,” Bucky says again. Like Sam didn’t get that the first time.

“I got that the first time,” Sam says, leaning in. “The fuck do you mean, they’re following me? Who’s following me? Only person who’s been following me around lately is _you_.”

Bucky leans back in his chair, still uncomfortably rigid but like he’s trying to look chill. “Yeah, that’s ‘cause I’ve been taking ‘em out,” he says, and wait.

“You… what?” Sam is gonna walk out of this conversation with a raging headache, he can feel it.

“I mean, they’re all ridiculously incompetent, it’s not hard, but they’re still HYDRA assholes,” Bucky says, and apparently talking about taking out HYDRA assholes is enough to make him relax his shoulders a little. Sam has no words. “They basically have no infrastructure, anymore,” he continues, “I’m pretty sure they’re freelance, but they’re all pissed off.” Bucky turns a little to look at him; whatever he sees on Sam’s face makes him wilt.

Sam scrubs a hand over his face, sighs loud enough for Bucky to hear. “So, what, you’ve just been… following us around? Secret bodyguard in the shadows?”

“No,” Bucky says, defensive. He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear. “Well, maybe a little. Kind of. I guess.”

Sam looks at him.

“Just you,” Bucky clarifies.

“They were just after me?” Sam asks. Great, now he’s going to be looking for fucking Nazis everywhere he goes.

“No, they’re following all of you,” Bucky says, and boy, isn’t that reassuring.

“But you’re only following me, huh?” Sam says, reaching for his drink. “Lucky me.” He takes a sip.

The tips of Bucky’s ears have been bright red throughout this entire conversation. Now, the blush travels further down, coloring his cheeks.

“Why?” Sam asks. “You said they’re all incompetent. I can handle myself, you know, I’m not a damn supersoldier but I _am_ combat trained.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “You’re good.” He picks up his drink, sucks at his straw and takes his time swallowing before he continues, “You shouldn’t have to.”

Sam looks at him. He takes his time with it, rests the side of his face on his fist and really looks, and for the first time he lets himself realize: the Bucky sitting next to him here in this Starbucks is really nothing like the man he’s met before. Beyond the obvious not-brainwashed-by-evil-Nazis. He’s jumpy, all of his emotions plainly visible on his face and in his body language, but despite everything he looks healthier - still pale as hell, but not the dead-eyed zombie he’d been before.

“And you should?” he asks.

Bucky closes his eyes. “It’s what I was made for,” he says, not looking at Sam. Fuck.

“It’s what they made you for,” Sam says, gentle despite himself.

Bucky opens his eyes and turns towards Sam, a wry smile on his face. “There a difference?” he asks, and Sam-

Sam decides to trust him.

 

Not all at once, of course. It’s not like they go from weird-bodyguard-not-stalker and guy-not-technically-being-stalked to being best friends who hang together all the time, but things change. Like, sometimes Sam will be minding his own business, at the library or in a coffee shop - or, one time, walking his neighbor’s dog through the park - and his phone will chime, and before he even gets a chance to check it he’ll hear the faint but unmistakable sounds of a formerly-brainwashed supersoldier taking out a group of incompetent HYDRA assholes, and then five minutes later Sam’s waving at a guy wearing a ballcap and about five layers of shirt.

It’s not nearly as weird as it should be.

Sam still doesn’t tell Steve.

 

It’s been an absolute shit day, after a frankly shit week, and Sam is looking forward to getting home and falling immediately into bed for the entire weekend, maybe stopping to shovel some cold pasta into his face on his way there. He is _not_ looking forward, or even expecting, to run face-first into a human goddamn _wall_ on his way out of the VA.

“Whoa!” Bucky says, reaching out and just barely stopping himself from grabbing Sam’s upper arms and steadying him.

“Jesus,” Sam breathes, somehow finding his footing without grabbing onto the man he’s just run into, then looks up and stares at him for a bit, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What the hell, Barnes?”

Bucky has the decency to look a little ashamed, which is more than Sam can say for the other supersoldier who has the habit of lurking around his workplace and surprising him. He clears his throat before he speaks, eyes to the ground. “I- You missed Wednesday.”

Sam had volunteered to cover a shift for his coworker on Wednesday, giving up his free day in anticipation of needing future days off for… superhero purposes. He still hasn’t picked up groceries, and the way this week has been going it’s unlikely he’ll get to it until next week. Still, the fact that Bucky knows his routine so well that he’s breaking their unspoken pact of silence is concerning. As is the fact that Sam has, apparently, become so predictable in his civilian life. Not a great way to throw off rogue HYDRA agents, he thinks wryly.

“It’s.. Friday,” Sam says, confused and more than ready to end this conversation so he can _go home_ , finally.

“I know,” Bucky replies, like any of this makes any sense at all. “I, um. I thought we could get food?” He’s still looking anywhere but at Sam.

“Food,” Sam says. Bucky finally looks up at him, makes eye contact for about half a second before he gives up and just focuses on looking in Sam’s general direction. Sam can relate. Bucky nods, once, decisive and jerky. His face, some distant part of Sam notes, is flushing pink.

_Fuck it_ , Sam thinks, remembering the week-old pasta in his fridge, the silence waiting for him at home. “Yeah, sure,” he says, “food. Why not?”

The slow blink he gets in return, the hesitant, fragile smile - they’re already better than anything he could have imagined for the night.

 

After they stand there outside the VA building, staring at one another just long enough that it starts to become uncomfortable, Sam clears his throat.

“You, uh- You got somewhere in mind, hotshot?” he asks, amused despite himself when Bucky opens his mouth, flustered, and then shuts it when he realizes he’s got nothing. God, it’s been _so long_ since Sam’s had to go through the motions of making friends like a normal person instead of just running into strangers and then helping them save the world. It’s refreshing.

Sam’s not sure when he decided their.. _arrangement_ was grounds for a friendship, but now that he’s had the thought, he might as well go all in. And since _friends_ take pity on their friends and help them out when they’re making complete fools of themselves, he decides that they're going to his favorite place. On Bucky’s dime, since he’s the one who made the invitation.

“Come on,” he says, fighting down a yawn. The fresh air is waking him up a bit, but he knows he’s due for a crash soon. “I know just the place.”

He starts walking and, sure enough, Bucky falls into step next to him, hands in his jacket pockets, the practiced picture of calm and collected. Sam turns his head to look at him, lets his smirk into his voice when he says, “You’re paying, by the way.”

Bucky sighs, but Sam can see the upturned corner of his mouth where he can’t help but smile back. “Guess I earned that,” he says.

“How about next time,” Sam suggests, “you try to have a plan for after you ram into me and ask me to dinner.”

“Ram into… _I’m_ not the one who rammed into _you_ ,” Bucky says, indignant. “ _You_ fell into my arms on your way outside, like the worst kind of romance novel!”

“Only because you were out there, in my way,” Sam replies. “Waiting for me, like the worst kind of romance novel.”

Bucky huffs, incredulous, and Sam is absolutely not having the most fun he’s had this week teasing him.

“Well now you’re taking me out to dinner,” Bucky says, “so I guess it all worked out.”

“If that’s what you want to believe,” Sam tells him, indulgent. He slows as they approach their turn, then stops in front of a nondescript corner store advertising _Wings, Subs, Salad, Kabob_. “After you,” he says, holding the door open for Bucky before following him inside.

 

They spend enough time staring at the menu in indecision, enticed by the scent of good food and unable to figure out what, exactly, they actually want to eat that Sam starts to worry about falling asleep where he’s standing. He shakes himself out of his exhausted, hungry daze to find that Bucky is looking at him expectantly.

“What’s up?” he says.

“I said, if you can’t decide on one thing, we can just get a sampler plate of everything?” Bucky sounds hesitant, and he’s looking at Sam very carefully.

“Sure,” Sam says, mostly because his brain has apparently decided to stop working. He doesn’t blame it; after all, it’s 6 pm on a Friday.

“Go find us a table,” Bucky says gently, nudging him along in the right direction. Sam doesn’t argue. He wanders over to a four-person table in the back corner of the store, mercifully empty and tucked away as much as it can be in this small space. As he plunks himself down into the chair, he realizes that it’s probably only empty because no one’s been around to wipe it down yet. All he wants to do is lay his head down for a bit, but he’s awake enough that he still cares about faceplanting into someone else’s crumbs. The napkins are, of course, _too fucking far away_.

He’s seriously considering just doing it when Bucky sidles up to the seat across from him, armed with a handful of napkins.

“My hero,” Sam says, more genuine than he’d like. Bucky smirks as he starts wiping down the table.

“Guess you’d know, from heroes,” he says. Sam makes a face up at him, but Bucky doesn’t stop there. Focused intently on brushing crumbs away, he adds, smiling, “Not that I’m anywhere near your caliber, huh.”

Sam can’t think of a response to that, so he shrugs, a little uncomfortable, picks up a napkin and looks for any spots Bucky’s missed. He doesn’t find any, so he settles for sitting back and folding his napkin in half, then again, and again, keeping his hands busy as Bucky throws his pile away. He gets back right as their food does.

“How is all of that stuff going, anyway?” he asks as he takes his seat.

“Hmm?” Sam hums, picking up his fork and digging in, manners be damned.

“All the… hero stuff,” Bucky says, waving his hand. “Flying around with the Avengers, saving people from the snapping jaws of evil, you know.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “It’s… going,” he says. “I’m not really on the main team, though,” he adds. “Just on call for emergencies.” Not that he minds, particularly; the Avengers have upped their roster since HYDRA. They don’t need everyone working all the time.

“Still,” Bucky says. “Must be a lot, doing all of that on top of your job here.”

“Most of the team have jobs outside of their costumes,” Sam says, defensive. “Can’t all just drop our lives to run around the world all the time.”

“I wasn’t- I just meant it’s impressive, is all,” Bucky tells him. “You’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t even had to deal with any of our _friends_ in like a month.”

“So you’re bored, is what you’re saying,” Sam says. “Man, you gotta get some hobbies, or something. What _have_ you been doing lately?”

“Oh, you know,” Bucky shrugs, taking a huge bite of his food so he can stall. Sam gives him a look, unimpressed. Bucky looks back at him, wide, innocent eyes over his full mouth, not fooling Sam. Sam turns his attention back to his own neglected plate, not really wanting to let it go, but willing to give Bucky time to figure out his response.

They eat in silence for a bit, comfortable in the increasingly familiar presence of one another and enjoying their food. Eventually, Bucky puts his fork down in his half-finished plate and sits back, folding his hands under his chin. Sam raises an eyebrow at him, picks up his drink and takes a sip.

“D.C.’s a pretty busy place,” Bucky starts. “Lots to do here.”

Sam huffs a laugh at the understatement, and Bucky quirks his lips in a quick little smile.

“Mostly I’ve just been helping out where I can,” Bucky continues. “After… everything, there’s a lot to rebuild. And I guess people always need help, no matter when or where.”

“So you’re the friendly neighborhood supersoldier,” Sam teases.

Bucky shrugs. “I guess. I dunno, I just- I like helping,” he says, ducking his head and picking up his fork.

“No, that’s- that’s great,” Sam says. “You’re right, people always need helping. It’s why we do what we do, right?”

Bucky nods, mouth full.

“Speaking of helping,” Sam says, smirking up at Bucky, “how’s the whole HYDRA assholes thing going for you? Beat up any Nazis lately?”

Bucky grins back at him. “Oh, those guys,” he says. “Did you know, D.C. police just busted a huge crime ring? All clean cut white guys with really bright futures and no criminal records, but they all confessed to _so much crime_ , Sam.”

“Weird,” Sam says, playing along.

“I know, right,” Bucky says, his innocent act completely ruined by the glee shining in his eyes. Sam can’t really blame him. “The cases are pretty much open-and-shut, too, those poor guys are gonna be locked away for a long time.”

“Shame,” Sam says, though he means anything but. It’s reassuring, actually, that Bucky’s not going around on a murder spree. He thinks about how menacing the Winter Soldier had been on the causeway in the middle of D.C. and decides that if Bucky used even a fraction of that menace on these HYDRA underlings, getting them to confess to nonexistent but highly-punishable crimes is the least is he could have done.

Bucky scrapes his fork through the sauce on his plate, brings it up to lick it clean before he continues, “Downside is, now I have nothing to do.”

“No more stalking me, then?” Sam says, and Bucky squirms.

“...Probably not,” he admits.

That really _is_ a shame, Sam thinks to himself. Weird and creepy as it might be, he’s gotten used to seeing Bucky in his day-to-day. He’s not used to having this sort of stability in his personal life, and hell but he’s completely fucked if he’s started to think of Bucky’s presence on the edges of his life as a sign of _stability_.

“Maybe we can try doing this like normal people, then,” he says. He flags down a waiter before Bucky can reply, asks for a box to put his leftovers in and then picks up his drink. Bucky is staring at him, eyes wide and wary.

“What do you mean?” he asks, and maybe Sam is reading too much into this or maybe he’s just too damn tired and full to parse human communication but something in Bucky’s voice sounds hopeful. Something in his chest loosens.

“Maybe,” Sam says, dragging it out, “we could do this again sometime. Only without the exhaustion and the lack of planning and the literally running into each other.”

Bucky smiles, a small, tentative thing. He looks good, Sam thinks. Like he’s a person; like he’s here. “I’d like that,” he says.

“Good,” Sam replies, soft, and it is.

 

It’s not like Sam’s making a conscious decision not to tell Steve - both of them have a lot to talk about, between Steve Captain America-ing all over the world and Sam’s heroic efforts to not burn the entire VA and bureaucracy in general to the ground and build it back up himself - but the two of them talk around the subject so much that Sam still feels vaguely guilty every time he hangs up the phone without bringing it up.

What can he do, really? Say, _oh, hey, Steve, by the way, Bucky beat up a buncha rogue HYDRA agents for me today, and then we spent three hours sat at the library arguing about comic books, and then I took him to that Thai place we said we were gonna try next time you were in town and he spent the whole time telling me why advances in food quality alone were enough to make getting into the future via Nazi freezer completely worth it_? Nah. Easier to keep it to himself, and see where it goes.

Not that he’s hoping it’ll _go_ anywhere.

 

“Why stay?” Bucky asks.

He’s sitting at the table on Sam’s back porch, a glass of iced tea dripping condensation from where he’s holding it to his forehead.

“Hmm?” Sam looks up at him from where he’s taking his gloves off. The garden area in the back corner of his yard is coming along nicely, and with Bucky’s help he’s managed to finish getting it all cleared out and all of his late summer crop planted in what feels like no time at all.

“Why’d you decide to stay in D.C.?” Bucky clarifies.

“You mean, besides the fact that I’ve got a stupid expensive mortgage on this house that I own?” Sam says dryly.

Bucky arches an eyebrow. “I _mean_ ,” he says, just as dryly, “why’d you pick D.C., of all places, when you came home? You could’ve gone anywhere.”

Sam doesn’t answer. He takes his time pouring himself a glass of iced tea, instead, thinks about a time when he’d thought _anywhere_ was something he could have for himself. Remembers believing so thoroughly that wherever he went would be home, because _home_ had been a person, once, and not a place.

“I dunno, man,” he eventually says. “It just.. felt right, I guess.”

“You didn’t grow up here,” Bucky says, asking without asking.

“Nah,” Sam says. He thinks Bucky’ll ask him for more, braces himself to awkwardly end the conversation, but Bucky just nods his understanding and goes back to his drink.

Sam feels something rise in his chest, light and fluttering. It's a feeling that’s become increasingly familiar as he continues spending time with Bucky, one he'd spent a lot of energy trying to ignore before deciding he was getting too damn old to be acting so childish and just accepted it. So he's got a crush on Bucky Barnes; he can live with that. There are worse things, Sam figures.

Bucky drains his glass, puts it back on the table and picks up a packet of seeds, fiddling with it. They’re done for the day, but neither of them wants to be the one to tell Bucky to leave. Sam finishes his own drink and gets up.

“You wanna bring those seeds in?” he asks, gathering their glasses and the pitcher to take them inside.

“Sure,” Bucky says. “How are the indoor plants coming along?” he asks as he puts seed packets back into the shoebox where Sam keeps them for most of the year.

“Pretty good,” Sam says. He doesn’t want to be greedy, but.. “Actually, some of them need trimming and repotting,” he says, casual.

“Already?” Bucky asks. “Seems like they were little baby sprouts not too long ago.”

“They grow up so fast,” Sam tells him. He’s not ashamed of the blatant pride in his voice.

Bucky laughs. “Well, plant dad, let’s take care of your kids, then,” he says. Sam _blushes_.

“Sure thing,” he says, and it comes out soft and quiet as he turns to go into the house. Bucky reaches out to open the door for him, and when he turns to thank him, he’s got a smile on his face, gentle and pleased. Sam can’t help but smile back.

 

 

_Art by[ensign-cannonfodder](https://ensign-c.livejournal.com/)_

Sam’s already got his plants out and his new pots ready for planting, but as Bucky makes his way to the garage to put the seeds away in their shed, he looks them over again. His aloe vera is big enough to divide, and he’s in the middle of telling her how proud he is when Bucky comes back in. He looks at Sam, beyond amused.

“Don’t tell me plant dad is playing favorites,” he teases, walking up next to Sam and picking up a smaller pot.

“Of course not,” Sam scoffs. “They’re all my favorite.”

“Hmm,” Bucky says, “I dunno, you seem pretty attached to that one in particular. I don’t think all of these other plant kids are feeling the love, man.”

“You love ‘em so much, you can repot ‘em,” Sam shoots back.

Bucky groans in fake disappointment, but he’s already getting to work even as he plays out his theatrics. “You better be planning on feeding me,” he says. “I’m not doing all this work for nothing.”

“Oh, however will you survive,” Sam replies. He sits down at the counter and gets to work on his aloe vera. He doesn’t even notice that he’s murmuring soothingly at her until Bucky sets his own things down and puts his face in his hands to cover his snickering.

“Shut up,” Sam mutters, trying and failing to hide his own grin.

“No,” Bucky laughs, “don’t stop, it’s cute.”

Sam turns to him and raises an eyebrow. Bucky gives him a wide, innocent smile in return.

“Well, I’m done,” Sam says, turning back to his plant and looking her over - both of her.

Bucky pouts at him. “You’re really gonna leave me here with all of these plants?” he says.

“It’ll be good for you,” Sam tells him. “Maybe you’ll connect with one of them. Make some friends.”

“‘M not talking to a bunch of _plants_ , Wilson,” Bucky says. “Besides, I don’t know how.”

“Don’t know how.. to talk to plants?” Sam asks, incredulous.

“I’ve never done it before!” Bucky says, completely serious. “Come teach me, plant whisperer,” he says.

“Thought I was plant dad,” Sam says, but he’s still walking over to sit down next to Bucky. “What do you want me to do?”

“What should I say?” Bucky asks.

“Just.. say things,” Sams says, a little exasperated and a lot amused. “Nice things.”

“Oh, if that’s all,” Bucky says. He picks up one of his newly potted plants and whispers to it gently. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”

Sam can’t help it; he laughs out loud. “You’re ridiculous,” he tells Bucky.

“And you’re gorgeous,” Bucky tells him, putting his plant down. Sam blinks.

Huh.

Alright, then.

“And you are _not_ subtle,” he says, leaning in to knock his shoulder against Bucky’s. Bucky bites his lip, doesn’t respond. “Don’t stop,” Sam teases, “it’s cute.”

Bucky flushes beautifully, and Sam reaches out to tuck his loose hair behind his ear. His heart is racing in his chest, but he feels calm; content. It’s lovely, sitting here in his house next to Bucky, teasing each other and existing in one another’s presence.

“Sam..?” Bucky starts, bringing him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, Bucky?” he says.

“... I’m kinda hungry,” Bucky says, and Sam uses the hand that’s already up near his face to swat him on the back of the head, laughing.

“Ass,” he says. “I thought we were having a _moment_.”

“Well, let’s eat and then we can have _more_ moments,” Bucky says. He gets up and brushes the dirt off his hands before offering one to help Sam up.

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Sam tells him.

Bucky looks at their joined hands, then up at Sam. They’re standing awfully close. “Good,” he says. “I was hoping you might say that.”

“Good,” Sam says, not really paying attention to the conversation. He’s a little more occupied with the fact that Bucky is right up in his space, and making it a little hard to breathe. He smells like dirt and a hint of deodorant. “Let’s eat,” he says.

Bucky steps back a little, and Sam shakes himself. He lets Bucky’s hand go and turns towards the kitchen. Bucky follows after him, slots himself into Sam’s kitchen like it’s his own, and Sam settles into the comfortable rhythm of the two of them, together.

 

When Steve calls that night, Sam is curled up on his couch, reruns of _Brooklyn 99_ on the TV and leftover food on the coffee table, Bucky tucked in at his side. He pulls his hand back from where he's been running his fingers through Bucky’s hair to pick up the phone, hesitates a moment before he shrugs and answers on video.

Steve's indignant yelling at the two of them is loud enough to bring Natasha rushing in to check on him.

Sam only regrets it a little.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote the scene where bucky picks out perfect produce despite his metal hand like a month after ca:tws came out. guess i'm just that good. hire me @marvel.
> 
> (ignore the part where i've just admitted that this fic did, technically, take me 3+ years to write)
> 
> check me out on [tumblr](http://gabejones.tumblr.com), where i'm very much back on my star wars bullshit


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